They made eye contact with the person who was about to die.
The exact same thing had happened to Brock Putman. The reason he couldn’t make eye contact with anyone else was that it made him relive that moment all over again. And his identification with the poor woman was eating him up inside. He was trying to cope by denying that anyone else had been killed. Guiltily, he was trying to convince himself that he—and only he—was dead.
Jenn spoke even more cautiously than before.
“You didn’t die. You weren’t looking in a mirror. Someone else died. And it wasn’t your fault. There was no way on earth you could stop it from happening. You know that—even if you have trouble accepting it. It wasn’t your fault.”
The man still faced away from her. But a sob escaped from his throat.
Jenn was momentarily alarmed. Had she just pushed him over some kind of edge?
No, she thought.
She had a gut feeling that this was good, that it was necessary.
The man’s shoulders shook slightly as his quiet sobbing continued.
Jenn touched him on the shoulder.
She said, “Brock, could you do something for me? I just want you to look at me.”
His shoulders stopped shaking, and his sobbing ebbed away.
Then, very slowly, he turned around on his bed and looked at Jenn.
His bright blue eyes were wide and pleading and brimming with tears—and they were gazing straight into Jenn’s own eyes.
Jenn had to fight back her own tears.
As blunt, brusque, and sometimes even tactless as she normally was, it dawned on her that she’d never had this kind of interaction with anybody before, at least not professionally.
She swallowed hard, then said, “You’re not looking into a mirror right now. You’re looking at me. You’re looking into my eyes. And you’re alive. You’ve got every right to be alive.”
Brock Putnam opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Instead, he nodded.
Jenn almost gasped with relief.
I did it, she thought. I drew him out.
Then she said, “But you deserve something more. You deserve to find out who did this terrible thing—not just to that poor woman, but to you. And you deserve justice. You deserve to know that he’ll never do anything like this again. I promise—you’ll get justice. I’ll make sure of it.”
He nodded again, with just a trace of a smile.
She smiled and said, “Now let’s get out of here. You’ve got two pals out there who are worried about you. Let’s go see them.”
She got up from the cot, and so did Brock. They walked outside the cell, where Chief Powell was still waiting. Powell looked astonished at the change in Putnam’s demeanor and behavior. They all walked back to the interview room and headed on inside. Riley, Bill, and Cullen were still there, and so were the two conductors.
Stine and Boynton sat gaping for a moment, then got up and exchanged emotional hugs with Brock Putnam. They all sat down at the table together and started talking quietly.
Jenn looked at the railroad deputy chief sternly and said, “Light a fire under somebody’s ass and get that railroad psychologist down here ASAP.”
Then, turning to the local police chief, she said, “Go get this man a cup of coffee.”
Powell nodded mutely and left the room.
Riley took Jenn aside and asked quietly, “Do you think he’ll ever be able to get back to work?”
Jenn thought for a moment and said, “I doubt it.”
Riley nodded and said, “He’ll probably be struggling for the rest of his life. It’s a horrible thing to have to live with.”
Riley smiled and added, “But you did some good work just now.”
Jenn felt flooded with warmth at Riley’s praise.
She remembered back to how her day had started—how her communication with Aunt Cora had left her feeling inadequate and unworthy.
Maybe I’m of some use after all, she thought.
After all, she’d always known that empathy was a quality she lacked and needed to cultivate. And now at last, she seemed to have taken at least a few steps toward being a more empathetic agent.
She also felt energized by the promise she’d just made to Brock Putnam: “I promise—you’ll get justice. I’ll make sure of it.”
She was glad she’d said it. Now she was committed to it.
I won’t let him down, she thought.
Meanwhile, the two conductors and the engineer continued to talk quietly, commiserating about the awful experience they had all endured, but which had been especially awful for Putnam.
Suddenly, the door to the room opened and Chief Powell looked inside.
He said to Cullen and the FBI agents, “You’d better come with me. A witness just showed up.”
Jenn felt a jolt of excitement as she and the others followed Cullen down the hall.
Were they about to get the break they needed?
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Riley followed Powell down the hall along with the other FBI agents and Bull Cullen, she wondered …
A witness? Are we really going to get a break this fast?
Years of experience told her that it wasn’t likely.
Even so, she couldn’t help hoping that this time might be different. It would be wonderful to wrap this case up before anyone else was killed.
When the group arrived at a small meeting room, a stout woman in her fifties was pacing inside. She wore heavy makeup and her hair was an unnatural shade of blond.
She hurried toward them. “Oh, this is awful,” she said. “I saw her picture on the news a little while ago, and I recognized her right away. Such a horrible death. But I had a feeling about her—a bad feeling. A premonition, you might even call it.”
Riley’s hopes sank a little.
It usually wasn’t a good sign when witnesses started talking about “premonitions.”
Bill guided the woman to a chair.
“Sit down, ma’am,” he said. “Take it easy and let’s start from the beginning. What’s your name?”
The woman sat down, but she just fidgeted in her chair.
Bill sat in a nearby chair, turning it a little to talk with her. Riley, Jenn, and the others also took chairs around the meeting room table.
“Your name?” Bill asked again.
“Sarah Dillon,” she said, giving him a wide smile. “I live right here in Barnwell.”
Bill asked, “And how did you know the victim?”
The woman looked at him as if surprised at the question.
“Well, I didn’t actually know her. We exchanged words on occasion.”
Bill asked, “Did you see her this morning—before she was killed?”
Sarah Dillon seemed more surprised than before.
“No. It’s been a couple of weeks or more since I last saw her. Why does that matter?”
Riley exchanged glances with Bill and Jenn. She knew they were all thinking the same thing.
A couple of weeks or more?
Of course it mattered a great deal.
When Powell had said a witness had shown up, Riley had imagined someone who either knew the victim personally or had seen something truly material to the case—the actual abduction, perhaps. Still, she knew that they needed to follow up on every possible lead. So far, they had nothing else to go on.
Riley said, “Tell us about your interactions with the victim.”
Sarah Dillon scratched her chin.
“Well, I’ve seen her around town. Occasionally, I mean. In stores, on the streets. Also at the train stations, both here and in Chicago. I take the train to Chicago every week or so, to see my sister and her family there. I’ve seen her getting on or off the train, either here or in Chicago. Sometimes we’ve been in the same car together.”
Sarah Dillon’s eyes darted about for a moment.
Then she asked in a near-whisper, “Do you think I’m in any danger right now?”
The woman was striking Riley as less coherent by the moment. She didn’t know how to answer her question. Why did the woman imagine she might be in danger? Did she have any good reason to worry at all?